Protector

Gianem

Ali

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My island is silent at night, except for the noise which the wildlife produces. A collection of grunts, howles, shrieks, and scratching. Not so quite after all.

I ghost my way through the forest, not the rustle of a leaf nor the crack of a branch underneath my foot betraying my presence. Tonight I must be silent. Tonight I am a ghost.

I approach a small hut, tucked away in a remote clearing. Here my quarry waits, though they do not know it yet.

I take a step and pause cautiously as my foot brushes against a length of wire, skillfully concealed in the darkness and undetectable to any but a person of my skill and training. There was give as I brushed against it, the wire not taut and overtly raised like that of a trap made by one unskilled in this particular art.

I crouch down, again careful not to betray myself with the slightest bit of noise. I run my fingertips over the length of wire and smile. He is a fool. A crafty fool to be sure, yet still a fool. The wire leads to a small hook, about 20 feet away. A series of clever knots and twists ensures the wire remains hooked up to an elaborate alarm system past the hook, while still remaining loose enough that strong gusts of wind and small animals will not trigger the alarm. A less skilled woodswoman would have mistaken the trap for a spider's web, or perhaps a particularly insubstantial bit of greenery. I must admit, the maker knows his craft exceptionally well.

I allow the thought to awaken in me a sense of caution and breathe deeply as the adrenaline floods my system. No longer a search and destroy mission, this is a game of two cats, circling each other and attempting to claw their way to their objective through any means necessary. He is good. I am better.

I do not disarm the trap. That would accomplish the same effect as if I had stumbled my way over it as it is rigged to sound if there is any tampering. No, rather I remove from my belt a pressurized container of revealing spray. A fancy term for a pilfered perfume bottle filled with an adhesive modified to sparkle. Its come in handy more times than I care to say. Careful not to allow any to touch my person, I mist the area around me. I avoid three more traps of the same high quality, and indeed, I believe they become more and more sophisticated as I reach the hut. The wind is the very devil itself, and time and again I have to move quickly to not become coated in the substance. It would be... unpleasant to say the least. I am rather fond of this outfit.

I do not go in through the front door. No doubt it is rigged with any number of nasty surprises. I assume the same is true of the two windows the hut boasts. Actual windows! Not just a slit in the wall covered by a pair of shutters, but square, even holes filled with glass, a precious commodity on my poor little island. I peek in and though my view is distorted through the glass, I can make out a sleeping form on the bed, facing away from me. With both the door and windows out of the question, it would seem my mission is doomed.

Instead I smile as I inspect a hole carved into the back of the house. A tiny excuse for an entryway, intended for the dog my quarry keeps. He was, of course, the first line of defense I dismantled. A sleeping draught in a steak, better fare than the animal typically received, was enough. No sorcery could have allowed any person to fit themselves into this pitifully small excuse for an entry. Fortunately, I do not need to get inside the hut to do what I need to do. I settle myself onto my stomach and unfold my scope from my pocket, tucking away my spray. He lies on his stomach, face turned toward the wall, arm hanging off the bed.

I know in my heart that this will have an easy conclusion, despite the trouble it took to get here. I stow away my scope and bring out my kit. I set a dart into my setup and assure myself that it is attached.

In the morning, Richard Paters will be found by his dog, cold and unresponsive. No one will visit and no one will miss him. The legend terrorizing this village will die down. No more little boys and girls will go missing. A week later, someone will be anonymously tipped off as to the location of the bodies. Someone beyond suspicion. I know how these villages work. If the wrong person were to discover the tiny bodies, all lined up with their arms crossed and eyes closed, some might choose to cast the blame on them. I would not wish that on an innocent person.

I take a deep breath. And then I blow. My dart speeds toward a bit of exposed flesh on his neck. It catches him in a vein and I am proud for a moment when he doesn't wake up. The poison pumps it's way through his system, and when his breathing starts to slow I begin to reel my dart back to me. The length of wire tied around the end attaches to my blowgun and when I hear the snick of the dart sliding back into place I tuck it away again.

I stand up and smooth away the wrinkles and dirt on my clothes. I make my way back through the pitfall of traps, still careful to not disturb anything. A successful mission is no reason to get sloppy. If anyone stumbles across this place, they will find it perfectly undisturbed, the only trace of my presence being the glitter and shine coating everything. The hole the dart punched through his skin is nigh on invisible and the poison untracable.

This is my island.

I will protect it.

Woe to anyone who thinks to mess with the inhabitants of Gianem island.

They will face my wrath.

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-ReNNa